Friday, March 23, 2007

After almost a year of driving cab I finally broke my cherry. An idiot on the highway called the phone number emblazoned on the rear of the Crown Vic. This was bound to happen sooner or later. It was all his fault, of course. An older guy in a mini van (stereotypes apply), attempted to merge into me on Harbor Drive. I tapped my horn, which caused the idiot to hold down his own horn and shake his miserable fist at me. In response, I raised my right hand, palm up, fingers extended, as a way of asking, "What are you thinking?"

Within five minutes I received a radio transmission from the company owner, "95 landline the office". The idiot said I flipped him off. No big deal, especially since the accusation was false, and I've never had a complaint before. In fact, my M.O. is to drive calmly and safely -- which makes me stand out among the animalistic cabbies of San Diego. I consider myself a gem among the Barbarians At the Wheel.

The incident brings to mind one of the worst aspects of Southern California drivers. Almost nobody signals, and on the rare instance someone does turn on a blinker, they think right of way has been granted. The guy this afternoon had this mentality. He wasn't able to bully me into changing lanes, so he put on his blinker and simply moved into me.

My fury stems not only from poor driving habits of Southern Californians, but from the inequity -- my boss's phone number is boldly displayed on my vehicle. But who can I call when civilians screw the pooch? The California Highway Patrol, the fabled CHP, that's who. From this point forward, whenever somebody complains about my driving, I'm calling 911 and reporting them as a drunk driver. If they lie about me, they're in for a big headache.